The Columbian. [volume] (Bloomsburg, Pa.) 1866-1910, 1887-04-22
-ead the trial of Rayaillac !.

THE prisoner is sworn and asked
his name, age, rank aud place of abode
He said that his name was Francoi,
Ravaillac, born and dwelling al
Ansouleme, between 81 and 32 years
of age"
can see those lines now, in all theil
qnaintness OF type, as one makes a sur
picture by sudden closing of the
eyes. remembered that | read on
till l came to page so stained as to
be iudlstinct, part of which had been
torn away. Then l must have fallen
into doze-a mere cat nap of nom
ent only. | woke with a start, unable,
at first, to recognize the surroundings.
The lamp had run down, after the
provoking manner of French modera.
teurs. | knew that it only needed
winding, and leaning over the table.
gave the key turr or two, but | was
too late; the lamp went out in a long,
smoky trail. Yet the room was not
qdite dark. The fire burned on, flick
ering at my feet, and making fantastic
suduoWs III Ine glass.
In the glass. | looked at it and
grew numb with horror. For l saw
there the reflection of mans face, 30
hdeous in its expression that, even in
crowd, one would have turned from
it with loathng. l have never been
able to describe it; in that uncertain
light 1t bad no color-I could barely
trace its outline. Bu5 | should know
that face if | saw it at the top of the
great pyramid or in the plains Of
Arizona-anywhere, indeed, upon the
instant; and l should shudder at the
sight, as do now at the thought, like
frightened animal.
For few seconds l was helpless.
My muscles refused to act; l could not
even turn my head to look behind me.
Thus, with all senses gone bnt one,
saw the face drawing nearer to my
chair and looking down at it. The lines
grew more distinct, a strange mark
came out upon the cheek, as if
the skin there had contracted Then.
with an effort that seemed like a trial
of strength with some force unseen,
caught the arm of the chair, and
springing to my feet, wheeled about
upon the dark, silent spaces of the
room, conscious only of a sudden
draught of cold air that chilled me to
the bone.
Darkness, there was nothing else.
Yet l turned again to the glass, finding
only my own face, scarcely recogniz-
able. Then, for the first time, l was
aware that my left hand, cold and
damp like dead mans, still clasped
the old book, marking my place be-
tween its leaves. would have laid
it down; but, instead of that l flung it
from me into the fire with a shrek
that set the room ringing. For the
stain upon its torn page had deepened
and freshened, and was oozing out
upon my fingers; they were red with
it Kneeling at the hearth, l wiped
away the drops with my handkerchief,
and burned that, too.
Still on the hearth l crouched, and
listened. Ii there were only something
to face and challenge! Not a sound.
But again the current of cold air, as
if from an open door or window.
That, at least, was real l found mv
candle, lighted it at the fire, and
searched the room once more. To my
great surprise, l discovered in the
darkest corner small door that | had
never seen-one of those blind doors
so common in French apartments,
cunningly contrived to fit panel of
the wall. 1t stood ajar, moreover, as
though forced open by some mischiev
Gus gust of the night wind, that had
lost its way in the house and then
made a frantic effort to get out again.
Rejoiced to account so easily for one
disturbing element, at least, l pushed
the door aside, and saw merely a mar
row, tagged corridor, leading to a ser.
wants stairway communicating with
the floor below-the ground floor
for the house had no entresol. By
the dim light l held l could distin-
guish three steps leading down into
awful blackness, like an murderous
oubliette of the middle ages. strain
ed my eyes and listened. There was
nothing more to be seen, but my ears
caught faint sound, startling at that
hour, though by day I should have
laughed at it-simply the noise of run
ming water, gently falling as if from
a pipe, upon the pavement below. l
went on cautiously to the stair rail,
leaned over it and looked down. No
one; but under the stairs, in the dark,
the water went splashing on intermit-
tently, as though it fell first upon in
visible hands-washing them, perhaps.
The thought suggested itself instantly.
"Wbo is there?" l shouted, 10 wering
the light toward the dark corner, but
in vain.
The water stopped. There was no
other answer.
"Who is there7" l repeated, in a
voice that was not mine.
| heard shufiing step, and there
came blast of the night air, strong
enough to put out the light, if l had
not drawn back, shielding the flame
with my hand. A door below me
quietly closed, and all was still again.
| rushed down the stairs, and found
the door. 1t was securely bolted; the
bolts were rusted; | tried one, and could
not stir it.
Then, out in the court, a harsh cry
rang back along the walls: "Cordon!'
the familiar call to the sleeping con-
cierge. "Cordon!' the same rough
voice repeated. The heavy street door
fell into place with a dull, jarring
sound, The presence, whatever it was
had escaped scot free into the world OF
Paris.
Drip, drip, behind me l heard the
water, falling now, drop by drop upon
the stones. There was nothing else
to show that / had not been dreaming
| gave one searching look at the dis
NAL little corner, and then fled from
the house forever. In less time than l,
takes to tell it had rushed through
the rooms overhead and down again
ythe main staircase out into the
court, and on through the falling rain
shouting to Casimir as | went Cor
dan onrdnn nn.lonIp I